Tuesday, June 24, 2014

“Even
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of mommy bloggers, I will fear
no tight asses, for craziness is with me; my rod and your vajayjay, they
comfort me.”

There was a
time when I really believed that the blogosphere was made up of only mommy
bloggers, tight ass prudes with absolutely no sense of humor and people who
believed they were God’s gift to the world of blogging.

These
people scared me, they had me questioning exactly why it was that I was
willingly joining this “opsphere” (if you will), at least not while being
intoxicated and/or with child.

It wasn’t
until about a year or so in, and digging through lots of crap, that I found out
that there were in fact bloggers who thought like I did, and found the same immature
nonsense funny…I was in heaven.

They weren’t
afraid to be funny, they weren’t afraid to go against the grain and they weren’t
afraid to talk about things other than their children, their personal feelings
towards politics/religion/entertainment and/or a so-called “interesting” event
that happened during the course of their otherwise boring day.

Don’t get
me wrong, I myself have dabbled in these areas occasionally, and personally don’t
really have a problem with them, I just can’t believe how over saturated the
web is with writers (and I use the term loosely) who live and die by these
methods.

Now these
writers I’m about to share with you are freaking awesome, they are the best
thing since sliced cake and glow in the dark condoms, and totally deserve your
love and undying devotion.

Here are
samples of how their minds work, so sit back and enjoy the madness, and don’t
be afraid to dig deeper into their world and show them the love and respect
they deserve.

"I don't care if people want to
bring their babies to the movies. We can't all get a babysitter. I get that.
Life doesn't have to end with children. That's not the point. Bring your babies
to the movies, fucking breastfeed with your tits out, I don't care. But if it
cries, and you don't take it outside, you're a selfish twat.”

"The hamster in my brain? He's
an asshole. Seriously. He makes my inner editor look all sweet and nice. At
least he gives me somewhat constructive advice at times on what to do when my
writing sucks. The hamster? He's just a lazy fucking bum that doesn't let me do
a damn thing no matter how much coffee I drink. Fucker. I may have to fire his
ass and get a new hamster."

“As I made yet another meal for my
children centered around store brand boxed pasta, I started thinking. What did people do before there was kraft
macaroni and cheese? How did they
survive? And microwave mac and
cheese... That's definitely a dietary
staple.

That thought led me to this
thought: What kind of wine best pairs
with microwaveable mac and cheese? This
is important information that one really should know.

If there was a world wide boxed
macaroni and cheese shortage, it would be a sad place indeed. I don't think I would want to live there.”

They are influenced not just by
Nature, but also by Nurture, and sometimes their own little mushy brains trying
to make sense of the world.

When I was a child, I had much brain
mush.

It often times leaked out of my
mouth, or zapped like bolts of lightening from my fingertips.

Sometimes it had to be spanked.

Let me give you a few examples:

I thought only white people could
swim. Why? I don’t have a God damn clue.

It might have been that I grew-up in a
Millbrook Bread kind of place. No one of color- not even those of us that lived
there. We were sorta transparent we were sooooo white. The first time I saw an
African American in a pool, I jumped in to save her, and I was 7. Convinced
she’d drown. But- I was very impressed with the way water droplets shone on her
skin. Sparkly. I always loved a shimmer.

The first time a really saw
(looked/observed) a black person, it was a kid the same age (about 5), holding
his momma’s hand (as was I) and we were walking in the opposite direction and
passed each other. We BOTH broke away from our parents and touched each other’s
faces. I said ‘hot’. He said ‘smooth’. We both got clobbered, but I think there
was something ‘special’ that passed between us.

I thought that all the things that
were happening in a television set were fake because they weren’t in color. I
wondered why when someone took a photo of me it was also in black/white when I
had painstakingly parsed a mutli-colored outfit together, complete with hair
bow and snake in my pocket.

I thought my mother had brought home
my baby sister from a Baby Sister store just for me. This confirmed my
adoration of the woman who would do anything for me- my own living baby doll,
was a good start. However, my mother who had sort of ‘bought’ into my
enthusiasm, probably had not counted on me cramming open-faced grilled cheese
sandwiches, lovingly prepared in my Suzy Bake Oven, down the throat of a two
year old with brown sugar sno-ball chasers.
Isn’t that Mommy food? I think so.

I thought every little kid got to
sit on a city street corner panhandling for change while their father was
inside coping black market hooch. It was a great game. My sister and I would
take off our jackets, put away our shoes, rub dirt on our faces, look very
homeless and hungry, and people would just throw money at us. They never
stopped to ASK if they could help, just said, ‘Poor little things. Here’s a
quarter for a hot coco’. Hot coco my ass. I saved up enough money one summer to
buy my own Pebbles doll. Our father thought it was genius. Of course, he did.

My sister and I played Hide-n-Seek.
I once hid in my parents dirty clothes hamper. I found a bloody pair of my
mother’s underpants. I thought she was dying. My first lesson in the
R-E-A-L-I-T-E-S of women’s health was immediately explained. I insisted they
would not be my problems. I still do.

I knew guns scared people. I knew
where my father kept his. I knew the snotty little boy next door needed the
shit scared out of him. So- up I went, into the high shelves in the laundry
room and un-holstered my father’s revolver and telephoned Tommy to come over,
and when he knocked, I opened the door with the gun in his face, just as my
mother came around the corner, and, well, two things happened; the gun was
removed from the house, and I didn’t sit down for days. Appropriate all around
I think. Except, he never got his ass kicking- that day. Which he deserved. But
I won’t think about that now because tomorrow is another day, and he’s in a
prison in Michigan for assault and battery. WIN.

It never occurred to me that any
money making enterprise I could dream up might be unethical. Jeez. Who was going to arrest a cute little
girl that had covered a series of ½ pint milk containers to look like UNICEF
collection cups, enlisted a small group of kids in a faraway neighborhood to go
door-to-door, and then give them 20% of the take? It worked-btw.

Or that my song-and-dance routine
wasn’t going to garner me fame and fortune. After all, my parents dragged me
out of bed to perform it often enough.
Of course, I was sorta ready… I always am.”

When clad only in my grey, partially
perished, George underpants, I pause (a deliberate ploy to ratchet up the
tension).

Teasingly, I slide my briefs down to
my knees and let them drop, but before they hit the floor I stick out my
cultured left foot and lampoon them under the elastic waistband.

Standing on one leg, with my boxers
swinging from my outstretched foot, I bend forwards with my eyes closed and
hands behind my back (have you got the picture?) and proceed to flip the undies
high into the air.

Rotating like a boomerang over my
bowed head, without moving my hands from the base of my spine, I catch them
just above the nick of my clenched arse.